Bath Bombs & Beyond

by Violet Patton

  Bath Bombs & Beyond

  A Bathhouse Row Cozy Mystery

  Violet Patton

  Copyright © 2018 by Violet Patton

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  To Hot Springs--may the fun never end.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Also by Violet Patton

  Thank You For Reading

  About the Author

  1

  Opening Day

  “Hey, why'd you write that? People will think we're witches.” I stood on the top rung of the stepladder, looking down.

  “Don't they already?” Sandy readjusted the easel, aligning it with the sidewalk cracks. She had written Potions, Lotions & Wicked Bath Bombs onto the easel's chalkboard.

  Everything had to be perfect for the shop's soft opening. Smeared glass was a pet peeve of mine, so I took one last swipe across the plate glass window.

  “There. How does the glass look?”

  “Good enough. Get off that thing.” Of course, Sandy wouldn't say something nice about my window cleaning efforts. I wouldn’t let stodgy old Sandy ruin my excitement. Grumbling under my breath, I tried to ignore her orneriness.

  Teddy, Sandy's out of work brother and our part time carpenter, leaned in the doorway watching. “They look fine.”

  I smiled at him, happy someone appreciated my peevishness.

  The sky was blue. The sun was shining—a fine September afternoon to open theRow. We named the soap shop Bathhouse Row Soapery, but saying that was a mouthful. The Row was short and simple, and I didn’t get tongue tied trying to say it.

  Hot Springs was jammed with plenty of folks hoping for one last vacation spree before summer ended, and we were hoping for a big splash over the Labor Day weekend.

  On Central Avenue, tourists walked along the promenade, heading for the bathhouses and shops along Bathhouse Row. Our little shop was situated in the main flow of tourists visiting the many spas, breweries and restaurants, museums and nightclubs along the street. Shoppers had pressed their greasy noses against the glass twice this morning. Having interested tourists was a good thing, but it would be an ongoing battle cleaning off their nose prints.

  “Guess they’ll be okay.” I tossed my polishing cloth and took a step back.

  When I opened one eye, Teddy hunkered over me, puffing hot air into my face. “You okay?” he asked. A pain shot from behind my eyes and out the bridge of my nose, and I realized I was lying flat out on the sidewalk. My eardrums buzzed.

  Sandy pinched my cheeks together between two fingers, squinting into my one open eye. “Pattianna. Snap out of it.” I wasn't seeing cartoonish floating stars, but Teddy's face looked a bit fuzzy.

  I pushed her hand away and grabbed my throbbing nose. “What happened?”

  “You took a tumble. Let me have a feel.” Sandy slipped a hand under my neck, working her fingers along my vertebra. “Nothing feels broken. How many fingers am I holding up?” “Very funny.” She wasn't holding up any fingers. “Guess I missed the last step?”

  “Yeah, you fell backwards.”

  “You want me to call 9-1-1?” Teddy asked.

  Sandy was a registered nurse. Keeping meticulous patient records made her impeccable. She made me crazy during the remodel fussing over everything too much. She sorted the shrink-wrapped bath bombs every time she walked by them and rearranged the soaps endlessly. When her back was turned, I'd mess with the perfectly aligned lotion bottles on the shelves just to drive her nuts.

  “You feel any pain?” Sandy asked.

  “Nope. Nothing’s broken.”

  “Good. Get up before someone sees you.”

  We have all known each other since high school, but Teddy and I worked together at the sheriff's department. He was a tenured deputy, while I worked as the Garland County sheriff's personal secretary for umpteen years. Sheriffs came and went, but I sat at my desk, processing odious criminal paperwork like a good little troll. Newly elected Dick Strand deemed our old-fashioned habits too archaic to fit into his newfangled modern department. We were forced into retirement. Human Resources called it attrition.

  Retired and at loose ends, I jumped at the opportunity to open a soap shop on Bathhouse Row with Sandy. When Teddy volunteered to do minor carpentry work for the shop's remodel, she balked at his offer, because they don't see eye to eye. I said yes, overriding her grumbling complaints, but he turned out to be a skilled carpenter and a helping hand.

  Teddy held out his hand. “Here let me help you.”

  I took his helping hand again and hitched myself off the sidewalk, dusting my pants. Smoothing my hair, I felt the back of my head. “Wow. I sure cracked a big one.” A goose egg throbbed where my head hit the concrete.

  “Let me call…” Teddy said.

  “Don't call anyone. I'm fine. Guess I got woozy.”

  “C'mere. Sit there.” Sandy pointed at the bench under the display windows. She bought the iron worked bench at a junk store. Teddy spray-painted the old thing lavender to match the Row's interior. It was cute, and she figured if tourists stopped to rest on it, they would notice the products in the windows.

  “Stay. I'll get a bag of ice.” She went inside.

  Passing by, Teddy patted my shoulder. “You’re gonna be fine.”

  Seconds later, the electric drill hummed. Even from inside, the drill’s buzz vibrated my teeth.

  Teddy made custom-built shelving for our products. Sandy worried they wouldn't support the weight of the Row's many lotion bottles and jars of salt scrub, but I knew his quality workmanship would hold. At the last moment, trying to placate his sister, he double-checked the screws in the shelves. The shop looked wonderful, and cost less, because of his input, but Sandy wouldn’t compliment Teddy’s fine workmanship anymore than my efforts to perfect the front windows.

  “Hey, Teddy?” I called. “Keep it down. We're trying to find customers, not run them off.”

  Seconds later, Sandy handed me an ice bag, which I pressed against my eyes. I held it there until my face froze, and when I removed it, a woman was sitting next to me on the bench.

  “Pardon?” I scooted over. She was an odd-looking tourist.

  Startled, she stood saying, “Sorry.”

  I immediately pressed the ice bag against my nose, not caring about the woman. The ice burned cold, but the pain behind my eyes grew worse. Sandy didn't need to know how much my head hurt; if I complained, she'd have me locked up in ICU before I knew what had happened.

  I couldn't stand the cold for long and peeked out. Sandy had erased the words on the easel with the polishing cloth I dropped. “Sorry I knocked over the easel.”

  She produced a piece of chalk from her pocket and rewrote the message, including the wicked part. P
ursing her lips, she cocked her head. “How's that?”

  “It's wicked.”

  She glared, casting me a nursing evil eye. “Keep the ice on your head.”

  I pressed the zippered bag against my thumping goose egg.

  “Hey! Come get the ladder,” Sandy called. The buzzing stopped. As he walked out the door, Teddy grinned at me.

  At the sheriff's department, Teddy and I exchanged niceties, especially if he needed a favor. Now, for weeks, if I bumped into him around the shop, he went all mushy. Over the years, Sandy had told me about her brother's shenanigans. Teddy was cute in a dysfunctional way, but I’ve had my fill of fixer-upper men. We were in close quarters in the small shop, and I knew entirely too much about him to encourage his quips.

  He hooked the ladder on his shoulder.

  “Don't scratch anything.” Sandy watched him walk through the shop with her hands on her hips. She fussed over the shop's décor too much, but he did her bidding without complaint.

  “I won’t.” He smiled. I had to admire his patience with his sister.

  Away from the sheriff's department, Teddy’s personality showed. He would stick his tongue out at Sandy to entertain me and to perturb her. It worked, and he kept me in stitches. If I giggled at his dumb jokes or twinged when he accidentally brushed against me, Sandy pouted openly, complaining about my flirtatious behavior. I wasn't flirting, just enjoying his antics. Secretly, Teddy and I agreed working was better than retirement, even if we had to put up with Sandy's crankiness.

  She erased the words and tried again, leaving off the wicked part. Stepping back, she admired her curlicue handwriting. “What do you think?”

  You don’t want to know what I think.

  “Better. The shop will be a big success, I just know it.”

  “Hush. Don't jinx us.”

  “Then don't ask me what I think. You're overly cautious.”

  “You know what I mean.” She stepped over the threshold. “Come inside.”

  “Gimme a minute.” I sat back, icing my goose egg, watching the meandering tourists.

  In Hot Springs, Central Avenue was the place to be. During racing season, the town was a Mecca for tourists and those wanting to take in the waters in the Valley of Vapors. Down the road, Oaklawn Racetrack drew hundreds of thousands of racing aficionados. Half a block up and across the street from the Row sat the famous Arlington Hotel. Rumored to be haunted by gangster ghosts, the old hotel attracted guests from around the world. Our little touristy town was infamous for its former gangster activities, but what happened in Hot Springs these days makes those rumrunners, bank robbers, and embezzlers look like kittens batting balls of yarn.

  After spending so much time typing crime reports, I’ve seen it all. Now, no crime would surprise me. I’ve lived in Hot Springs all my life and haven't gotten bored with its fun-filled character. The place has a sexy vibe, a dangerous undertone of debauchery and intrigue.

  “Come in. Shut the door. You're letting out the air-conditioning,” Sandy called, cutting into my daydream about our quaint little village.

  The ice bag was dripping. “Oh, okay.” I got up and leaned against the doorjamb. “It smells so good out here.”

  “It's your stinky bath bombs.” Sandy twirled a finger, meaning she wanted the door closed. She hadn’t loved my concocted bath bomb mixtures. Some of them turned out great, others not so much, but I had to experiment to perfect my craft.

  “Hurry up. You’ll let in bees.”

  After we started stocking the shop with fragrant soaps and salt scrubs, if we left the door open, infatuated bees drunk with love buzzed over the showroom tables.

  “Whatever you say.” I stepped inside and closed the door. My ice bag dripped big wet drops onto our newly polished hardwood floors.

  Teddy stood between the swinging doors. “I'm about done here. Is there anything else? I got 'nother gig.”

  “No, guess not.” Sandy stared at the water drops and squinted at me “You want me to get a paper towel?”

  “I’ll get it.” Teddy pulled a shop rag from his hip pocket, kneeling to wipe the spots before they ruined the fresh stain on the hardwood floors. He had put plenty of elbow grease into the floors.

  “Come back tomorrow. I'm sure something will be broken by then,” Sandy said.

  “Besides Pattianna's head, you mean?” Teddy chuckled and smiled. “You gonna be okay?”

  I smiled, giving him a thumb up. “Just dandy.”

  “See you later!” He ducked out of the showroom, seconds later the security door thudded shut. He was out of here fast.

  “I suggest you go to the ER. Get your head examined.” Sandy would love nothing better than for me to have my head examined.

  “I know… I know.” I sat on the stool behind the counter. “I'm okay, really.”

  The emergency room was the last place I wanted to be, and I’m as stubborn as she was meticulous. It’d take a bump the size of a grapefruit to scare me into going to the hospital. I pressed the melting ice pack to the goose egg to chill it into staying small.

  “Okay, have it your way. Listen!” She jerked an ear toward the stockroom. “What's that?” The tiniest issue could send her into a nervous jitter. She wasn’t happy about a thing, although, this afternoon she has been acting unusually nice for a change.

  “What? I don't hear anything.”

  “Thieves are breaking in,” she muttered, going into the stockroom.

  “No, they aren’t.” I rolled my eyes even though my eyeballs throbbed. “Don’t be a worrywart.”

  Nobody could break into that heavyweight security door. When we filed our building plans for the permit to remodel, we found out we needed another emergency exit. The installation of the door was the most expensive part of our start-up costs. Even though everything involving the renovations went smoothly, she worried endlessly, and now fussed about imaginary problems in the stockroom.

  Thieves! That’ll be the day.

  I tiptoed over to the display window and brushed away an imaginary cobweb, looking for nose prints, making sure I hadn’t missed any smudges. On each side of the door, offset windows hung over the sidewalk. As I filled the display windows, I would go outside, pretending to be a tourist peering into the windows at the Row’s products. I made sure I did not press my nose against my clean glass. But even knowing what sat in the displays, I found the arranged products quite fetching.

  I turned out of the window and caught a slight movement, only a glimpse of it. “What was that?”

  Weird.

  I rubbed my eyes, and when I looked up again, there wasn't anything there. “Musta been a reflection.” I slumped on the stool, icing my goose egg, propping my elbows on the counter.

  Sandy returned to the showroom. “Did you see a woman?”

  “Who? What woman? Did we have a customer?” she asked, casting wary glances around the small showroom. As usual, she acted impatient, so I didn't press the matter. I switched the ice bag around to my throbbing nose.

  “The wind caught the tissue paper. It was all over the floor.” Fidgeting, she rearranged the freebies basket and straightened the ink pen and the sticky note pad. “I'm so nervous. Have you heard from Myra?”

  From behind the ice bag, I muttered, “Not yet. Don't worry. She said she'd be here.” Myra was our landlady, but she has been my friend for a ’coon's age. She wouldn’t miss our opening day. “I sent her a message earlier.”

  “Right.”

  The old-fashioned doorbell tinkled when the door opened. I had insisted on the bell since a noisy buzzer tripped by the door would've rankled Sandy's nerves. I wouldn’t be able to stand her overwrought jumpiness every time the door opened.

  The fall had shaken me, but I jumped off the stool, forcing a rally, smiling at the first bonafide shoppers entering the shop. I stashed the melting ice bag underneath the counter and smoothed my rumpled blouse. “Welcome to the Row.”

  2

  Bathhouse Row

  Sandy gasped, grabb
ing the counter. Her panic attacks were getting worse and wearing on my nerves.

  “Don’t you dare,” I whispered. “You better not cop out on me now.”

  “Sorry.” She fluttered her eyelashes. For all her verbosity, she had a bad case of first customer jitters. I couldn’t help her and them, so if she passed out, I’d just shove her underneath the counter.

  “It’s okay. I got this. Go sit on the loveseat.” I patted her shoulder, even though I didn’t really have it, but one of us had to help our first customers.

  “I need a few.” She puffed going through the clacking swinging doors.

  A man and woman entered the shop, smiling and sniffing. The lady said, “Nice place.”

  I fidgeted and smiled back. “Thank you.”

  Damp curls framed the lady’s flushed face. The gentleman shopper looked relaxed, and he had shopping bags from our main competitors, the Buckstaff and Bathhouse Essentials, looped on his fingers. He stood to one side patiently waiting, while the lady browsed the display tables. Their damp curls and relaxed nature hinted at a couple’s massage session at the Buckstaff.

  “Are you enjoying our little town?” I asked, stepping out from behind the counter.

  “Yes, we are. We love it here.” She gazed at the various displays on the two black lacquered showroom tables—another of Sandy’s second-hand treasures. “Smells like fresh paint.”

  “Yes, it does. Sorry.” I cringed. It wasn’t good to have our first customer notice the lingering paint fumes. “We can’t leave the doors open because bees love to buzz our soaps.”